


This Time Imperfect

by bearonthecouch



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Mass Effect 2, Memory Loss, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Suicidal Thoughts, asari sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: "Everyone needs more something, Commander," she says softly. With a casual touch, she runs a finger lightly up the bare flesh of the human's arm - she'd tossed away her armor hours ago. In the darkness, Aria swears she can feel the lightning-sparks and wires that glow orange beneath. "So, my sweet little dead Spectre, what do you need?"
Relationships: Female Shepard/Aria T'Loak, Past Kaidan Alenko/Female Shepard - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	This Time Imperfect

_The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide.  
We picked up the shards  
And formed them into shapes of stars.  
_\- AFI

The Commander's cabin of the Normandy SR-2 is quiet. Shepard lets her eyes wander over the dimly lit space. Bubbles rise slowly through an empty fish tank. The furniture is all smooth lines, and looks as though no one has ever touched it. And a few carefully chosen objects have been left near her personal terminal. Medals she recognizes as being significant recognitions from the Alliance military, with her name etched onto the little metal plates. But she doesn't _feel_ anything when she looks at them. And, next to them, a nondescript picture frame, where a digital image forms itself out of sharp pixelated dots of light: a man in Alliance uniform, a soft smile on his face. Warm brown eyes, close-cropped dark hair. Shepard picks up the frame and stares down at the picture. She flicks her tongue against the back of her teeth as she worries away at the disorganized images screaming in her head. Her heart rate quickens. Her vision becomes blurry as tears begin to form, though she doesn't know why.

"Come _on_ , Miranda," Jacob had insisted, when the Cerberus scientist had insisted on quizzing her on the brief shuttle ride from the dying space station. "The memories are there."

Shepard had ignored him - ignored both of them - and hadn't bothered to tell him he was wrong. "I feel fine," she'd told them. She was lying, but they hadn't bothered to call her on it. She wonders if she's really that good a liar.

They'd asked about Mindoir, about Virmire, about Elysium: names and places that sound familiar, but she'd responded with hollow words. Terrible things had happened, violent things, scary things. She remembers some of them, in intense bursts that come at unpredictable times. People died: they'd asked about Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, but she'd barely been able to put a face to the name. She can't remember how she'd felt about the woman; whether they'd been friends, or barely known one another. From the glance Miranda and Jacob had shared, the slight hesitation before the question, she'd probably cared when the other woman died. They probably expect her to care, still. She'd muttered something noncommittal. Later, she remembered in another unpredictable flash that she'd once spent hours agonizing over a datapad, scrawling words with a stylus in her hand because it somehow felt more personal than typing: a letter of condolence to the family. Ashley had had sisters, a lot of them. Somehow Shepard remembers that, but she can't remember if she has any siblings of her own. She looks up the files on Mindoir and figures that if she did, they must be dead now.

She stares at the picture and runs her finger up and down the sharp edge of the frame. She still cannot figure out what it's doing in her quarters. It matters. It _must_ matter.

"Who is this?" she whispers, not aloud, not _to_ anyone, but EDI answers anyway. The AI interface appears suddenly, with a soft chime and a pulsing blue ball hovering just out of her reach. "Staff Commander Kaidan Alenko, Earth Systems Alliance," the artificial female voice trills, helpfully. At Shepard's request, the image in the frame minimizes and is replaced with a dossier, pages of facts composed of block letters and short words. Born in 2151, at a naval hospital in Vancouver, on Earth. Biotic; one of the first. An L2. He'd been shipped to Biotic Acclimation and Temperance Training at age sixteen. There are portions of the file missing, redacted. Shepard could hunt them down, but she doesn't bother. He hadn't officially joined the Alliance until 2173. She'd joined the same year. Does that matter?

She scowls at the files in frustration and eventually closes them. The picture fills the screen again. She sets it down - gently - and prepares to sleep. She pulls her shirt over her head and leaves it where it drops on the floor - who will stop her? Her pants join the pile of fabric as she shimmies out of them. When she crawls under the heavy blankets of the bed, she realizes that she's still crying, although she still does not know why.

At 0600 hours the alarm she'd set begins to beep: softly at first, then growing louder and more insistent until she stirs and shuts it off with a voice command, replacing sound with light as the overhead fluorescents brighten. She pulls on clothing, then armor from the locker installed here: believing that her quarters are more private than the shared armory is merely a comforting illusion, but she is uncomfortable with the thought of Cerberus fondling her gear. As she prepares, checking her guns, locking them within comfortable reach before she heads for the ship's elevator, she flicks through screens on her datapad and tries to refresh her spotty memory with the little provided information there is on Omega. She's heard of the place: rumors and whispers, all of them bad. A criminal haven in the Terminus System, off-limits to Alliance personnel. Well, she's no longer Alliance personnel, is she? And also, she's technically dead. So there's not much off-limits to her anymore, is there?

She takes Miranda and Jacob with her. She doesn't want to admit that she needs them, but she does. She responds to stimuli - which is Miranda's way of saying that she didn't get her ass re-killed on the space station, and hasn't since - not on Freedom's Progress and not in the carefully recorded and monitored sparring sessions on the new Normandy. She can fire a gun with accuracy, can even control her biotics when dumped into a fight-or-flight scenario. Those are just more technical words: "fight" is what she calls it, because she doesn't "flight" - she's a fucking N7 and a Spectre. Nothing scares her.

Except that the words that are supposed to reassure her only bring another flash: running feet, boots pounding on metal, fire, screaming - _her_ screaming: "Get the hell out of here, Kaidan! That's an order!"

She freezes. Kaidan. Staff Commander Kaidan Alenko, who fills her mind and heart with _memory_ that has nothing to do with the dry monotone listings of postings and dates she'd read the night before. The warmth of his body pressed against hers under the artificial rain of the crew shower on the original Normandy, the way he'd shivered as she ran her finger over the swirling trails left by the soap. His face, lit by the flickering blue glow of the perpetually whining console he was always tinkering with outside the mess hall. His strong fingers wrapping a coffee mug in a death grip at a table nearby, as he told her about his broken relationship with his father and the impersonal cruelty of the mercenaries who'd broken him down on Jump Zero. Their first kiss, fierce and desperate: she remembers the heat of his lips and the cold metal of the crew lockers against her bare skin as her shirt rode up over her stomach. And the weight of his armored fingers locked around her wrists before she shoved him away in those final moments.

"Commander?" Miranda asks. Her voice is sharp and disapproving. Shepard glances up and into those cold blue eyes for just long enough to remind herself of where she is and what she's doing. She pretends nothing has happened, though she has no way of knowing how long she'd been paralyzed by her own fucked up brain. Seconds? Minutes? It couldn't have been longer, or she'd be getting far more than just a dirty look from the woman who built her and still looks at her as little more than a temperamental machine, not so different from Kaidan's tricky console. Every morning, when she stares into the mirror at unfamiliar dark eyes, and deep scars that refuse to close, she wonders if Miranda isn't wrong.

She turns her back on the Cerberus soldiers behind her, and puts one foot in front of the other, pushing her way into the jostling crowds of Omega. She makes it about four steps before an angry batarian - they're _all_ angry, and they ignite a primal fear in her, planted by a seed she can't quite grab onto - blocks her path. It's the kind of fear that makes her react before she thinks: she's got her gun in the alien's face before she knows what she's doing.

It doesn't faze the bastard. It wouldn't. He spits out the harsh barking buzz that is his species' analog for laughter and tells her that the Queen of Omega is waiting for her. Aria T'Loak. The batarian says it like it's a name she should know, but it doesn't sound familiar. Shepard frowns, wrapping her fingers tightly around her gun the way she does when she's unsettled or uncertain. Is this another person she's supposed to care about? She glances backward, at Jacob - the Cerberus security officer hovers at her heels: suspicious or overprotective or both. Well, it is Omega. And wouldn't it be an awful waste of the Illusive Man's billions of credits if she got herself killed by some drug-runner in a dark street on this galaxy's shithole of a space station?

Miranda glares daggers at the confrontation, and Shepard isn't honestly sure what would make the woman more pissed off: if she doesn't shoot the batarian, or if she does. She abruptly shoves her gun back in its holster and tears herself out of the alien's grip. She can hear his angry snarling as she stalks away, toward the buzzing bright lights of the nightclub that is so large it seemingly takes up half the space station, and never closes. There is no daylight here, in more ways than one.

Shepard scans the huge flickering letters as she allows herself a brief moment to adjust to the sheer volume of the bass pulsing in a kind of flickering unsteady rhythm that sets her on edge - the "music" is not made with humans in mind, that much is obvious. She keeps waiting for downbeats that don't exist, she struggles to ignore the high-pitched ringing whine of tones just above her range of hearing. Afterlife. She smirks at the irony of the name, catches Jacob's eye, but he just stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing the same serious expression as ever, and scanning the crowd for threats. She shrugs, and steps forward, past the bouncer who waves her in with barely a glance. "Aria's expecting you," he growls. Shepard nods, as if she knows what that's about.

She moves forward through the spinning forms of near-naked dancers and past the bar with single-minded purpose. She keeps her hand on her gun, though she is not feeling confrontational enough to draw it, not yet. Not until she makes it past the first cordon of security surrounding a circle of sofas nestled under a blacklight, and a lumbering hulk of a krogan waves a beeping hunk of metal and plastic in her face. She takes a step backward and pulls her gun out from behind her back smoothly, her finger on the safety. She watches Aria, not the bodyguard. "If you're looking for weapons, you're not doing a very good job," she points out.

The dark-skinned asari lounging on an overstuffed couch laughs smoothly. "Can't be too careful with dead Spectres," she announces, without breaking away from Shepard's gaze. "That could be anyone wearing your face."

Shepard submits to the scan, without further protest.

"She's clean," the krogan announces, sounding bored.

Shepard tells herself to quash the thrill of butterfly wings in her stomach. She's a DNA match for the information stored in the real Commander Shepard's military records. That's all the scan would be able to tell. It isn't much. It certainly isn't enough to make her feel any better. It can't convince her that she's the same woman, brought back to life. It doesn't silence the constant sense of _wrongness_ , the nagging questions that Miranda won't answer, it can't take away the inhuman glow of scars that won't heal.

It clearly doesn't convince this Aria either, though the asari gives the krogan a nod and waves her hand to an empty seat. Shepard sits. She looks around and half listens to the the woman blathering on about her own self-importance. She doesn't bother trying to look like she's paying attention. Aria doesn't bother trying to look like she cares one way or another. In truth, Shepard is a curiosity. It's not often a human Alliance soldier gains enough notoriety for her name to be recognizable out here in the lawless Terminus system. Of course, it's also rare for a human Alliance soldier to be directly responsible for the death of every member of the Citadel Council. Unheard of, actually. And the woman is here for _something_ , funded by Cerberus, who, if the stories can be believed, brought her back from the dead at obscene personal expense. Aria doesn't care about that, of course. She _does_ care about someone who'll try to upset the delicate balance that exists here on Omega. "Omega has no titled ruler and only _one_ rule." She stares Shepard directly in the eye, and spits slowly, carefully: "Don't. Fuck. With Aria."

Shepard can't help it. She laughs. She laughs until she is crying, tears pouring down her still raw lab-grown flesh; the water highlights the eerie orange glow of her cybernetic scars. After weeks of hiding from Cerberus watchers and trying to disentangle complicated webs of lies and half-truths, it feels fucking _brilliant_ to have someone be so refreshingly up-front about her brutality.

"Sounds like neither one of us likes being jerked around," she admits.

Aria's smile disappears as she leans in closer to the human commander. "And on your ship, that would matter. Here, we entertain my preferences."

Shepard shrugs. "You invited me, remember?" Aria bows her head, conceding the point. She laces her fingers behind her neck and smiles lazily. This Shepard wants something, needs something from her. Everyone does. For now, it's just information. Aria gives her nothing that can't be found at the bar, or even in the streets outside of her club. Shepard leaves with barely a word.

Aria forgets about her within half an hour, the human commander's visit is just a small interruption in an afternoon of sipping expensive liquor before inviting one of her favorite dancers into a private room.

At least that's what she tells herself. The lie holds for days, then weeks, even as she monitors the SR-2 as it moves through nearby space. If Shepard is serious about pulling that Cerberus boat through the Omega 4 relay, she'll have to come back.

Omega is the closest available port for a refuel and resupply. Shepard knows her crew deserves _some_ kind of shore leave before they probably die. She has a litany of excuses, and she recites them all.

It doesn't change the fact that she holds the picture frame in her hand so tightly that it shatters, cutting her with sharp shards that leave her fingers slippery with blood. She throws Kaidan's picture - just a black screen, now - to the ground and kicks it under the nearest piece of furniture. She ignores Tali and Garrus and deliberately avoids Joker and almost goes looking for a fight with Miranda. Instead, she heads for Afterlife, to drown in alcohol and noise.

Aria T'Loak grins as she tracks the return of the Normandy SR-2 to Omega. Commander Shepard is a soldier: ruthless, but almost sickeningly honorable, not the type of person to dirty her boots in the Terminus systems. Only she looks a hell of a lot more dangerous now, months after their first meeting. The turian "Archangel" hovers over her shoulder protectively, growling protests when Shepard orders him out. Aria kicks her people out too, leaving them in privacy. Shepard curls up into the corner of the soft couch. She's lonely. She's lonely in the kind of way that Aria recognizes all too well.

Without a word, she slides a nearly overflowing shot glass across the table to the human soldier. Shepard lifts it in a half-assed salute and knocks it back. "What are you doing here, Commander?" Aria asks. Shepard doesn't respond. To be honest, the asari had never expected her to. She's collected enough information to know that the commander is aiming for a suicide mission. She certainly wouldn't be the first to come to Omega to commit suicide, fast or slow.

Though Shepard's already died once, hasn't she?

Behind them, visible as flickering shadows through the thick translucent glass windows, dancers of varying species move in sensuous waves. Shepard ignores them, concentrating on the rapidly emptying liquor bottle in front of her.

"Hadn't you heard what happens to humans who drink in Afterlife?" Aria asks softly. Shepard glances up. Despite the amount of alcohol she's consumed, her cybernetic eyes are as clear and sharp as ever. She shakes her head, though Aria notices that for once she does not pick up the shotglass immediately. Instead, she spins her finger around its edge, slow circles that pick up speed. "If you were gonna poison me, you've had plenty of chances."

"Indeed," Aria concedes. She sips her own drink. "And you're not afraid of dying, are you?"

Now, Shepard freezes entirely. Her fingers slip from the edge of the glass. She looks up at Aria. "You think you've got me figured out, do you?" No one else might notice the barely-perceptible slur in her voice, but Aria has survived as long as she has only by being _very_ observant.

"I do," she says, matter-of-factly. "Everyone needs more _something_ , Commander," she says softly. With a casual touch, she run a finger lightly up the bare flesh of the human's arm - she'd tossed away her armor hours ago. In the darkness, Aria swears she can feel the lightning-sparks and wires that glow orange beneath. "So, my sweet little dead Spectre, what do you need?"

Shepard shivers. She knows she shouldn't be here. She looks into Aria's dark eyes and tells herself that she isn't running away. She _isn't_.

 _What do you need?_ The question crashes against the edges of her mind, smashing against the images cycling there, snatches of sound, the buzzing of seeker swarm, their needles scratching against her skin, protected by the salarian's barrier, the sound of explosions and the staccato bursts of gunfire, the look on Kaidan's face, the taste of his biotic energy mixing with the blood pouring from one of the several wounds ripped open in the life-or-death battle on Horizon. Her heart, thundering in her chest. "Kaidan, come with me. It'll be just like old times."

"No," Kaidan had responded, instantly, truthfully. "It won't."

He'd walked away, without a backward glance. Without another word. The emptiness is like a hollow weight somewhere in her middle, a black hole sucking her down from the inside out. It shouldn't matter. It _shouldn't_ matter, not when she's probably going to die. But somehow, that makes it matter even more.

"I need to forget," she says softly.

Aria laughs; harsh and sweet. Her finger traces along the curve of Shepard's neck, her _presence_ presses down the moment she pulls away. "If only it _were_ so simple."

The asari's voice screams in Shepard's mind; a violent force unlike anything she's felt since Sovereign. It is more urgent and sensible than the Prothean beacon, dangerous because it feels less threatening. When Liara had messed around in her head she'd done it tentatively, with careful footsteps, always asking first. Aria T'Loak does not ask; she takes. She reaches into Shepard's memory and digs and rips at the raw wounds she finds there, her fingers rough and tearing, crawling like worms. Shepard shakes and shudders, squirming away from the violent assault. Aria holds her still, licks her lips, and laughs as her thumb traces lightly over the scar across Shepard's cheek. A sheen of sweat glistens over the asari's indigo skin. Her fingers tease Shepard's sensitive skin, gentle motions that turn violent. Shepard fights back, scratching and kicking. They laugh and fuck and the intensity of it is unlike anything Shepard has ever felt. It's even memorable for Aria, which is saying something. No, the Commander doesn't need to forget. The Queen doesn't either.

"It's hard, you know," Shepard admits, in the soft hush afterward. "Everyone thinks I ought to care, about dying. It's hard to fake it, for them."

Aria nods. "Better to have loved and lost..." she quips, a famous phrase from some long-dead human poet. "What a bunch of fucking bullshit."

Shepard agrees. She finishes off the bottle of chokingly strong booze in one long swallow. Her omnitool beeps softly, the clock now both alarm and warning.

Time for a suicide mission.


End file.
